The writer and literary critic Dorothy Parker, who was famous for her wit, once wrote of a book she was reviewing, “This is not a book to be tossed aside lightly. Instead, it deserves to be thrown with great force.” * I had a similar reaction to a famous book of theology many years ago. The work was Ethics by Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
Parker’s remark on what may have been her least favorite book is obviously a touch hyperbolic. So is my comment on Ethics. I was not compelled to throw the book aside, but I did feel like casting it down. There were one or two sections of Ethics that I found brilliant. But as I turned, somewhat randomly, from one essay to another, I was repelled. I felt suffocated by the prose, as if I were being smothered in a blanket of religious piety. My reaction was swift and visceral. I tossed the book aside – it actually landed snugly on my bookshelf – and didn’t open it again for over ten years.
Today I find Ethics to be rich and wonderful, as I do everything I’ve read by Bonhoeffer. Much happened in the years between my initial revulsion and my later delight. Most importantly, I am no longer an agnostic. Instead I have returned to the Christianity in which I was raised, to once again inhabit the same religious universe as Bonhoeffer. Many of his ideas and assumptions about life and the world are familiar to me. In short, Bonhoeffer’s language is my own, and so his words are alive to me.
When I say that his words are alive, I don’t just mean that they pique my curiosity; my response actually runs much deeper. I mean that the words enter me and seem to resonate throughout my body. This welcoming response I feel is radically different from my reaction years ago. The words are the same – the difference lies in me.
Now, when I read Bonhoeffer’s words, my body responds like a musical instrument, with all the strings pulled taut and vibrating. Reading Bonhoeffer has become a whole body experience.
It’s a truism among writers that to read their work is to know them personally. This is especially true when the writer’s skill with language makes their words dance and even sing with meaning and emotion. Finding such a writer is the beginning of a new relationship that will hopefully grow and flourish. In time, reading will take on the quality of music and we will become an instrument in the hands of the writer.
But this musical experience of reading doesn’t only depend on the writer’s skill. We, the reader, have work to do as well. We must be willing and able to listen to the writer’s words.
In his book Power in Writing, Peter Elbow notes that when reading even the best writing, we must first give the writer access to our mind before the words can have any impact. Heart, soul, and body lie behind this mental doorway, and if that door remains shut, we will never resonate to the words that the writer offers us.
My initial encounter with Bonhoeffer, over a decade ago, illustrates how quick we sometimes are to deny to ourselves this rich and engaging experience. My task, as a reader, was to open the door and give Bonhoeffer access to my mind and to what lies beyond. My failure to do so shows how easy it is to keep that door shut.
Such failure is widespread in our deeply polarized society. When we have lost the will, perhaps even the ability, to open our minds to opposing voices, to resonate within to their words, then any hope of building relationships across our many political and cultural divides fades. Allan Jacobs, in his book How To Think, explores the roots of this crisis and counsels us on how to restore human connection to this broken landscape we inhabit.
His excellent book, alas, was published too late for my first encounter with Bonhoeffer. But if many years ago I could’ve magically read How To Think, I would’ve found the perfect antidote for my anger at Bonhoeffer’s words.
“Give it five minutes,” Jacobs says in his final chapter, telling us what to do when we are provoked to anger by words. Go off and weed the garden, take a walk, let your body’s rhythm capture your mind. All of this, he concludes, will help us to think – really think – about the words we’ve just read.
And the act of thinking is of course the key. Once we’ve thought about the words, then our mind has been opened, and the words can enter – into the heart, the soul, and the body. Will we immediately find the rich musical experience of reading? Probably not. But we have made first contact with the writer, and with time and patience, we can grow and nourish this new relationship into the rich and meaningful experience of reading – reading as a whole body experience.
Suggested Reading
How To Think ; A Survival Guide for a World at Odds – Allan Jacobs
